With van living being the primary focus in recent times, it’s been three and a half years since I last boarded an aluminium deathtrap in earnest and in that time my discomfort of flying hasn’t eased. In fact, I have now been joined by a person who finds it even more discomforting than I, which presented an interesting challenge when sat next to each other for over five hours as we fist clenched and teeth gritted our way over Europe.
With Vishnu under several metres of snow somewhere on the outskirts of Prague, we decided to save our great escape for another day and make the most of our time in the glacial Czech capital. After bidding au revoir to the campsite's ostentation of bemused peacocks we caught a convenient tram to the city’s most iconic structure: Karlův most.
The final destination of our Central European voyage would be newly named Czechia. With the recent change frowned upon by almost everyone outside of government, in a similar manner to North Macedonia, we would continue to use its former ‘Republic’ branding when having drinks and conversing with civil servants, politicians, or the local fuzz.
Crystal-clear skies and festive fragrances greeted our first morning in the Slovak capital: Bratislava. Having parked up in neighbouring Austria and caught an unsurprisingly efficient train into the centre we decided to get our blood pumping early doors by marching up a rocky hill towards her primary attraction.
The undulating nation of Slovakia was to be our next stop as we terminated our eastward bearing and began our return journey in earnest. This was my first occasion within its landlocked borders having skirted close by while Interrailing many moons ago. Lowri, however, had visited before and even knew how to order a beer in Slovak, absolutely priceless knowledge.
With Vishnu temporarily repaired and teaching done for the weekend, we could loosen up, relax, and start to find out what it means to be Hungarian and what better way to do that than by taking a nice warm beer bath.
Following a festive weekend in Vienna we embarked on the short seventy-kilometre hop directly south into the great nation of the Magyars, otherwise known as Hungary. A slight oddity in the heart of Central Europe, the country is quite unlike any of its neighbours, especially in terms of language.
Following the advice of our new favourite fiftyish Austrian roadside café owners, we were going to Graz. Our original plan was to cross the slightly flatter northern part of the country straight to the capital: Vienna. However, southern Graz was most definitely worth the rather large diversion, according to them at least and I now trust them with my life.
Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Julie Andrews, the list of prodigious Austrian musical talent goes on and on and nowhere exemplifies her harmonious heritage more than our second destination. Following a few drinks over the ice hockey in the western town of Feldkirch, we spent a couple of weeks bouncing around Bavaria before re-entering Austria in the most melodious of cities: Salzburg.
From beer diplomas in Bamberg to fairy tale castles in Füssen, our first week in Bavaria was more German than an evening frying Frankfurters with Jürgen Klinsmann. Into week two and we were to base ourselves in the region’s largest city, Munich, while splashing out on a few vanless nights with an attractive wooden guesthouse in the suburbs for Lowri’s birthday.
